


The Art of the Dress

by Adelheide1121



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelheide1121/pseuds/Adelheide1121
Summary: Claire sets out to teach Jamie that a dress can be an act of temptation on its own merit.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 39
Kudos: 167





	1. Vestments and Vexation

The pale, wan early light of sunrise streamed in the house, making it a wonderfully shadowy and suggestive place, but fortunately, the bright embers in the fire had defused it with a delightful warmth in the corner where she stood. Outside she could hear a chill wind tossing the bows of the trees about. There was a rare breeze from the south calling to her; the shadows she could see through the windows were long and clear-cut; the exquisite sky of early morning, gray-tinged pink which would turn to bright blue over the wind-winnowed hills. The sun would soon creep high enough to illuminate the long valley, and the purple hills would darken to a lush green. The faraway sound of birds twittering as they woke with the sun was a reminder that nature was forever in motion. 

When it came to life on the Ridge, Claire had felt like she was living up to her nickname when they first arrived, a stranger in a strange land. Then suddenly everything fell into focus - the land, chores, family. How happy they would be here. It was enough for her and Jamie just to be together in their own home, with their gazes, their caresses, their conversations, their silences. All the color of the love pouring into their lives. Claire could face any struggle with Jamie looking at her with that smile in his blue eyes he kept for her alone. They managed to find every day a new way of saying, “I love you” and shared laughter as they had shared sorrow. 

Life had a balance again.

Happiness and love did wonders, really. Better than Ponds Cold Cream ever could, anyway.

The morning sun washed her face in a glow of light, and Claire Fraser looked at her face in the quaint gilt-framed glass with a good deal of satisfaction. Her reflection smiled back in the dim light, and her clear blue eyes were shining softly. A mirror could not be tricked. It told her plainly that she wasn’t as young as she once was, but it also told her that time hadn’t tread as harshly on her features as it had on her heart. There was something in her eyes that had never been there before the loss of Little Faith and would never be absent from them again. The story of pain rested there, but her cheeks were still like smooth ivory, the white hollow in her throat was still kissable enough, and her great sky-blue eyes still looked out brilliantly from under dark brows. 

She had kept her complexion quite well, with an inward glow that still shown through her. There was color in her cheeks, either from the bracing winds that raced up and down the valley or from the words that Jamie whispered huskily into her ear whenever he had the chance, but the ruddiness suited her. The face looking back at her was so very different than the one that gone pale under fluorescent hospital lights as she trod on linoleum floors.

She placed her hands on her hips and looked down with a critical eye. Her figure was tolerable as well; she was pleased to note. There was no denying that certain...cargo...had shifted over the years but, for the most part, everything where one would expect it to be. She could see the outline of her body through the thin warp of her shift and slowly began the ritual of dressing. 

Laid out on the bench beside her was a new dress made in the new English style. A close-bodied gown with a fitted back meant to mould itself to her body. The skirt and bodice were cut separately and were open in the front to show the contrasting color of her underskirt. The cotton embroidered wool was a beautiful burgundy with saffron-colored leaves scattered across it. She ran her fingers over the material. It was a gorgeous thing to behold.

_I’ll just go throw something on_ was a phrase she had retired once she had gone through the stones. Before she had found herself here, she hadn’t thought much about 18th-century fashion outside of the occasional fancy dress party. But zippers and polyester could hardly be compared to the clothes she hung about herself daily now. While her 20th-century self didn’t understand the point or complexity of it all, she was amazed at the practicality of it all in practice. 

Every layer had a purpose- beginning with the simple cotton shift, shapeless but indispensable, protecting delicate skin from friction and wicking away sweat from the body. She had learned the hard way why one never left it off. A corset on bare skin may have been deemed appropriate for heroines of the American cinema, but she learned it had no place in 1772. Jamie had help remedy her folly by applying the salve of plantain and beeswax on her open sores where her skin had been rubbed raw by her stays. It was a mistake she never made again.

The warm woolen hose was pulled on next, tied above the knee with wide blue ribbons not for decoration or enticement as lingerie may have done in the modern days but to keep her from having to struggle with saggy stockings under cumbersome petticoats since elastic was an invention a long way off. Sturdy shoes were a necessity on the uneven ground. 

She pulled on her stays. And the stays themselves are what 20th century Claire would have turned her nose up to the most. But now she understood the comfort of lifting heavy objects with her back supported by study quilted fabric, cordage, and baleen. How wrong she had been, thinking that women must have needed a small army to kit themselves out every morning. She turned her laces to the front and began to thread them closed and, once finished, shifted the garment the right way with the closure at the back. She pulled the laces and watched as her bust was pushed up and peeked through the delicate fringe of handmade lace at the neckline of her shift. She approved of the swell of her breast as the tightening of laces resulted in an ample fullness at the bustline. Something about it made her feel singularly feminine. She reached for her laces one more and pulled them once more to enhance the effect. She watched how her breasts were emphasized with the rise and fall of every breath she took.

Panniers which she had never done without in France were impractical on the frontier. Instead, a bum roll held the skirts out to achieve the fashionable silhouette but also offered protection when steadying a heavy bucket of water against your hip. The opulent ornamentation of Paris had not been lost on her; Claire loved beautiful things, but she loved beautiful things that combined aesthetics with everyday function even more. 

On the Ridge as at Castle Leoch, simplicity was key, and Claire preferred it that way. And yet something about the silhouette made her feel deeply connected to her femininity. Her small waist was emphasized, and her bosom high and on display, but everything she placed on her body was so very useful. Petticoats for warmth, her pocket was tied around her waist and covered by a wool overskirt. Then over the top was a front closing bodice that she swiftly pinned in place followed by the apron; a protective outer layer was most versatile for gathering, protecting the hands from heat or could wiping a sweaty brow or hands. Then a fichu would finish the ensemble, laid over her shoulders, and tucked into the front of her bodice, but she did so carefully so as not to dim the glory of her decolletage. 

Claire paused and turned her head this way and that as she pinned her hair into place. The streaks of dove gray only gave dimension to her glossy curls, and she couldn’t help but admire the effect the style had on emphasizing the long line of her neck. She was more than comfortable with her appearance, her pulse thrilling with sudden excitement. Anyone who observed her at that moment might have thought Claire Fraser a vain baggage, but she wasn’t. She simply had a healthy appreciation for this body that had carried her through time and space. She knew what it could do, what it had endured, that it bowed but was never broken. 

And now her body was clothed in new raiment. _Who wouldn’t be proud?_

Jamie still found her staring dreamily at her reflection when he brought in an armful of firewood. He stamped his feet and laid down his load.

“You’re up and awake! Good, can ye give me a hand?”

She turned towards him and smiled as he straightened up and set his eyes to hers. 

“I want to lay in a good load of wood in today…” he stopped and looked her up and down. Claire crimsoned under his gaze and smiled back coquettishly. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes glowed with excitement at what his response would be.

“Hey, Sassenach. ‘Tis a wee bit chilly out here. Ye might want a shawl to keep your top half warm. Now’s not the time to be so...bare, especially with this wind.” With that, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them before walking out again. 

Claire stood stock-still with shock. She had expected a languid compliment whispered hotly into her ear or rough hands pawing at the front of her gown. What she had not expected was...whatever that exchange was.

_Get a shawl?_ She thought indignantly. She thought about her husband and his reaction to her gown, but her meditations were far from being romantic or charitable. Claire knew quite well wherein the sting consisted, though she did not put it into words, nor was she inclined to bring it to Jamie’s attention. She instead chose to ignore him- with a vengeance- until, after much thought, she tried to shake off her annoyance. Then she had an opportunity to indulge in a good laugh over the whole affair but an undercurrent of vexation still flowed. _A shawl indeed._

And so the day went on. Claire was busy to-ing and fro-ing here and there. Fine feathers or no the work must be completed; plants must be gathered, concoctions made. And fires must be stoked. In the afternoon, Claire found herself taking her frustrations on a load of dried mushrooms in her mortar and pestle. It felt good to pulverize something into dust. She gritted her teeth and pounded with all her might. So engrossed in her work was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“Is something bothering ye Sassenach?” Jamie said absently.

_Speaking of fires that needed to be stoked..._

She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned her hands on the table, not feeling ready to make eye contact. 

“What? No, not at all.” Claire did her best to keep any churlishness out of her voice. Her success was middling at best. 

Jamie felt sure that he was wading in dangerous waters, although he couldn’t determine the source of his unease. So he decided it was best to tread lightly if he could manage it.

“I’m getting the feeling you are none too pleased with me today, and to be honest, I canna figure out what I’ve done.” 

“That’s it. You haven’t done anything,” she said cooly.

“So yer determined to be a sphinx then?”

Claire sighed deeply and decided just to be forthright. “I have a new dress. I thought you would notice it.” She gestured to herself, and Jamie blinked, then opened his mouth and laughed heartily. 

“Oh is that what has you worked up. Aye, I noticed, but I didn’t think to comment. It’s not what ye wear that matters, Claire.” his blue eyes danced at her with impish glee. “I’m thinking about what’s underneath it all.” 

This reaction, like this day, was not what she expected. She cocked her head to the side, and her brows knit in confusion. A feeling which was soon overtaken by curiosity. 

“So what I wear doesn’t matter to you at all?” she said slowly. 

“No. An’ why should it? Ye wear what every woman wears. Ye just wear it better, ye ken?” He walked over and squeezed her waist and kissed her cheek, nuzzling his nose to her hair for a brief moment. She thawed an infinitesimal amount and then relaxed into his embrace as he brought his arms around her. 

It was at that moment that she realized that Jamie found her rather than her clothes appealing. To his eyes, this mode of dress was normal, workaday—the cut and shape pedestrian. Women young and old, thin or stout were all dressed the same with little variation. And even in Paris where more was always more, the opulent fabrics and dizzying decoration changed with the decades, but they were still carried off on the same basic patterns. Wide skirts held out by panniers were more architecture than _habillement_. And despite the fantastical aesthetics and artifice of court life, it still boiled down to the robes à la française with only the occasional robe de la cour thrown in for variation. 

This revelation set her pondering a different time and place, her past and future. Claire remembered preparing for a rare night out at the dance hall during the war, dressing with special care, adjusting her skirt, and trying her best to cover the stain of iodine on her hands with a pair of borrowed gloves. And most of all, she remembered how she felt in that dress—beautiful, alluring, graceful yet powerful. The right dress with the right cut and drape could do that to a person. Then the spell had been broken when one of the nurses had joked not to worry about her appearance so much since, at the end of the day, men just liked naked. And disappointing as that idea was to her then, Jamie seemed to be proving that point in the present. 

Suddenly an idea slipped like Italian silk over her mind. She wondered what this simple man would think of the more daring silhouettes of the modern era? Something designed to emphasize the natural shape of the body rather than distort it? Something soft that could cling to the figure rather than remain restrictive and tailored. Self-possession was restored when she was suddenly consumed by a challenge.

Could he be seduced by _how_ a garment concealed rather than just by _what_ it concealed?

Claire's arms held him tight before she stepped away. She drew a long breath and set her head up proudly as determination tingled over her, and she smiled a secret smile.

She was determined to find out the answer for herself. 


	2. Form and Fluidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman makes the dress not the other way around.

_“JESUS H. ROOSEVELT CHRIST!”_

A fat drop of blood squeezed from the end of her thumb, then another. She placed in her mouth and tasted the coppery saltiness of her blood on her tongue and sucked until the bleeding abated. 

Claire was sitting with a lap full of pale filmy voile hidden away in her storehouse and wondering how she began this folly. What had possessed her to attempt such an endeavor? 

Once she determined that she wouldn’t be marring anything with her own blood, Claire picked up her work with a deep sigh. Outside, the grass was still green like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters; and there were purple-stained violets at the base of the trees. The day was beautiful, and she would have given anything to be out in the crisp air and walking along the lovely game trails that served as paths whenever she sojourned into the forest. Or she would have relished tending a wound other than her own poor sore fingers. She daydreamed for a moment that instead of silk thread and fabric her hands, she was using catgut to suture flesh. Claire Fraser was not one for sewing, at least not as conventionally understood, but then what was a surgeon but a tailor of the body?

She was plagued with frightful dreams of setting a sleeve wrong and thus had carried a chip on her shoulder since breakfast. Enough for Jamie to ask if she had gotten her courses, and he was lucky to still be alive. It was not a pleasant day, and to make matters worse, it rained through the morning, keeping Jamie from the tasks he had planned, and he sat and sulked by the fire. He would not talk; he sat by the hearth and ate his breakfast with the air of a martyr. After breakfast, he worked to splice a broken bridle in grim silence; then, he betook himself to the stable and would not be lured from that retreat. He even responded to Jenny’s entreatments with maddening indifference. 

Claire had found Brianna crying by the side of the house for no reason that could be determined, But when she tried tactfully to find out what was wrong, her daughter peevishly wanted to know if a human being couldn’t just enjoy a cry when she felt like it without being hassled. So she folded her arms and stole away, leaving her to her enjoyment.

This was the last straw that sent Claire to find sanctuary in her storeroom to continue work on the project she wished she had never challenged herself with. But in for a penny, in for a pound. There was no turning back. And Claire had never wished for a Singer sewing machine more in her life. 

As she waited for the soreness in her thumb to fade, she took a breath and closed her eyes, taking in the sound of the wind in the trees outside. It was uncommon for Claire to have a moment of peace and quiet. There was always something that needed doing or someone that needed her attention. In fact, right now, there were any number of things that could occupy her time, but the idea of a pair of blue eyes looking at her was her motivation. 

It had taken a long time for her to settle on what type of dress she would use as her weapon of seduction. She had nearly three hundred years at her disposal, after all. 

No pressure or anything... 

She eliminated the 17th century right off. As much as she had come to begrudgingly embrace a set of stays and what they did for her decolletage, it was clear that it was nothing but humdrum familiarity for Jamie. Also, cast aside were the eras that weren’t in her realm of experience, especially the 1830’s with its ruffled flounces and gargantuan sleeves. The 50’s too fussy, the 60’s...too boxy even if the short hemlines were daring. No, she had a different time in mind. 

Figuring out what fabric to use had been a challenge in itself. There was no hopping to the store for charmeuse or sateen. She finally settled on cannibalizing a biscuit-colored voile petticoat that yielded her four yards of fabric. It had a translucent quality that shifted in the light, and she felt would do the job she needed of it. 

Working this voile engaged her whole body. She held the fabric in her hands and stretched in this way then that. Laying it on the ground, she measured with herself as her measuring tape. She was the dress form and draped and pinned the thin material to hug the curves of her body.

The way it molded to her figure with a clinging softness recalled a very particular and lost glamour. A time occupying both her past and her future — a time of Garbo movies and Edith Pilaf or Gershwin tunes playing at Le Gerny; when the Jazz Age had been her present. A time as opposite the 18th-century silhouette as one could get. 

Somehow _she_ had made this look so easy. But then _she_ had been...or will be...a genius. Claire knew she was only a pretender.

But she needed to focus. She needed to reach back into her past to remember the lessons that were guiding this dress-making attempt. The knowledge was stowed there; she just needed to unpack it. Claire leaned back in her chair and let her memory enfold her; time was fluid as the fabric that slipped over her fingers. 

* * *

She remembered that summer. She was eighteen, and it was 1936. It was Paris between the wars. The city was like an old dame, waking from the jubilation of the German defeat only to be left listless once the Depression set in. The hot August air was stifling in the city, its beauty muted in the muggy Parisian haze. Claire mopped at her face with a handkerchief even though it was well past the point of being effective. Dark, damp curls clung to her neck and forehead. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and tried to discreetly adjust the garter clips that were digging into the top of her thighs, and cursing the tight elastic of her girdle and longing for a cool breeze to touch her fevered skin. 

Paris was a beautiful city, but she couldn’t say she felt beautiful in it. She was tired and out of sorts. It could have been their sleeping arrangements- or lack thereof. They’d been resting on trains and station platforms so far. Uncle Lamb had insisted that they reach their destination as swiftly as possible. As though to let up the pace would cause him to lose momentum, like a locomotive charging up a steep incline. The relentless pace and meager train fair had not improved her mood. 

She cast her eyes down to the front of the cavernous auditorium. It was so full that she had only been able to find space in the back of the Gallery. Uncle Lamb was in the middle of an impassioned speech about the importance of amphorae. Examples from the Neolithic to the Classical period sat on stark white pillars, their ceramic surfaces painted and decorated with images of legend and nature. The Greeks, after all, never shied away from gilding the lily. 

Her uncle, trim and spritely in his suit that he reserved only for academia gestured towards each one excitedly extolling the virtues and function of each. The audience was electrified by his enthusiasm. This drew a smile to her lips, and she felt her mood rise with the tide of excitement. And she understood it. The appeal of a vase. How the lines and curves created not just an object of beauty but an object of usefulness. 

"Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought.

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’ st,

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”

 **  
**Claire looked suddenly to her left to see a small woman with graying hair and bright eyes smiling at her. She was a tiny thing in a smartly tailored black silk dress, with snow-white hair and intelligent eyes as black as her dress, thin, veined hands folded on her lap on an open notebook. She had a sad, lovely, gentle look about her, but Claire had a suspicion that her apparent fragility was deceptive. She was enveloped in an air of invincible lady-likeness that was unlike anything she had encountered before.

Claire returned the smile, barely missing a beat, and promptly sat up a little straighter. “Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn,” she whispered. 

“Indeed you looked like you were thinking of poetry while listening to the lecture.” she laughed softly, keeping her voice low.

“I’m Claire Beachamp, That’s my uncle down there speaking.” 

The little woman’s eyes sparkled. “Dr. Beachamp is your uncle? How wonderful. His knowledge of Classical Greece is so inspiring.” 

Claire looked at the book that was held tightly in the woman’s hands. It appeared to be a sketchbook, and Claire could see hastily drawn figures on its open page. She was curious as to their purpose. But before she could speak again, rapturous applause thundered out. The lecture was over and obviously well received. 

She stood up, grateful to stretch her legs at last but also eager to continue to talk to the fascinating woman beside her. 

“You have introduced yourself to me, and I will return the favor. I’m Madame Madeleine Vionnet,” she said simply. 

Claire blinked. That name. Why did she know that name? Or why did the way the woman said the words make her immediately feel that she had met someone worth knowing? Her mind rapidly processed all the information available, the lecture, the sketchbook, the figures drawn hastily. Then it dawned on her. 

Madeleine Vionnet. The designer. 

Her dresses had graced the pages of Vogue that had occupied her time when her books grew tiresome, and she had wanted to rest her eyes on pretty images as the train rattled its way across the European landscape. Claire, while unconventionally raised, was as attracted to the beautiful and glamorous figures of magazine and screen as any other girl her age. 

She was tongue-tied for a moment and stood in what she was sure was a stupid manner. Madame Vionnet took pity on her and helped how she could.

“I would love to meet your clever uncle.” she said kindly, “Could you arrange an introduction?”

Claire was finally able to regain her capacity for speech and nodded emphatically. “Of course!”

What are you doing this afternoon? You must be hungry. I would love to invite you both to lunch.” 

“That is so kind. Unfortunately, I have been engaged to speak with the Ecole faculty this afternoon. We have an invitation for a social engagement tonight, but we didn’t come prepared for that. I promised I would take Claire shopping for something suitable. But I don’t know how I will accomplish being in two places at once.” He scratched the back of his head and looked at Claire apologetically. 

Madame Vionnet smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you let me take care of that. I’ve taken an interest in your niece and could use a companion for the day. I plan on spending an hour or two at the Louvre. I can help with a dress as well.” 

Claire looked at her uncle, and he nodded agreement at the scheme. After a few more moments of discussion, it was all arranged, and they were off on an adventure. 

The forenoon passed in a whirl of happenings, a lovely lunch in a cool dining room, a ride through the streets of Paris, and to the wide concourse of the Louvre. And not a half-hour later, Claire stood with her hands clasped under her chin, her breath held with rapture. 

The figure before her commanded attention, her chest thrust forward, the marble rippled over her stone torso, clinging to her hips and belly. Her body is free and unencumbered. Her wings were aloft as if she was ready for flight, or perhaps she was alighting softly to earth.

She was faceless, but her body exuded sensuality and power. Her personality was spoken through her body. She was wings, hips, stomach, breasts, and legs and somehow more than that. She was truly more than the sum of her parts. She was the Venus of Samothrace. Or Winged Victory, as she was commonly called and she stood planted for centuries on her marble prow, an eternal wind breathing softly against her marble skin. 

Claire cast a glance in Madame Vionnet’s direction; she was sketching with abandon. Her pencil swooping in long flourishes against the parchment. They had not spoken for a half hour or so as Claire studied the sculpture in front of her and Madeleine’s hands moving furiously. The way her brow’s knit together and the way her mouth was set made Claire wonder if her hands were keeping up with her mind. Eventually, she stopped and placed her hand on Claire's shoulder.

“I’m glad you could see her. She and I are good friends. She tells me her secrets, and I draw them down. I spend much time here to get inspiration.”

“And what secrets has she told you?” Claire asked curiously

“Today she tells me that when air encounters an obstacle, it flows over it and around, but the object remains undisturbed and unchanged by it. But with too much force and it’s destructive and moves away everything in its path, leaving nothing behind. Fabric is the same. It should flow around the body, not destroy the body. A dress shouldn’t hang off the human form. It should show its lines; it should be brought to life by the body. No ornamentation is needed, and it shouldn’t be needed. It’s only playing second to the architecture of the dress. Look at her, Claire, don’t you see?” 

Claire looked at the statute again critically. She did see it.

Their time at the Louvre was over too soon but they went by taxi to 50 Avenue Montaigne. She stood looking up at the impressive five-story building that was home to the Vionnet Ateliers. It was a proud, exclusive looking building that drew its avenue of trees around it. It looked like it wouldn’t associate with anyone or anything common.

Madame Vionnet slipped an arm through hers and proceeded to do the honors of showing her the House of Vionnet. Madeleine had already shared the particulars on the ride over 1,200 seamstresses pattern-making, cutting, sewing to bring her vision to life every day. But to see it was another matter. They walked through the rooms, busy with work. Scissors slashed fabric with a snicker-snack sound that echoed, and the dull hum of sewing machines pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat through the corridors. They moved upward until they came to what Madame Vionnet called “her study”. It had the feel of an inner sanctum, filled with its own kind of creative magic. They sat on mahogany Sheraton chairs. It was hung with silver-stripe wallpaper. Heavy brocade curtains at the windows and marble-topped tables, one was bearing a peculiar figure. It looked like a large doll, but it was the size of a small child. Fabric was draped upon it, and sketchbooks and notepads littered the table in front of it. An enormous chandelier, all glass, and crystal was suspended from the ceiling. A round mirror with a clock in the center chimed smartly. 

Madame Vionnet did most of the talking. She was eloquent and matter of fact and showed Claire hundreds...more or less... of her sketches and prints of Grecian statues, Egyptian frescos, and classical vases that served as inspiration for her designs. Claire found the conversation stimulating and was able to contribute handily. 

“How do you even begin to turn these into something that can be worn?”

“It starts with the fabric. I prefer fabric that _drips_ from the body. It’s better suited for revealing the form underneath. The fabric combined with the woman speaks to me.” she said candidly. “We cut on the bias, here. That is my genius, using a cutting technique previously used in creating collars. Bias cuts involve cutting the fabric against the grain. It’s how the woman is revealed.”

There must have been a look of confusion on Claire’s face because Madame Vionnet clucked her tongue in an exasperated way and gestured for her stand up to come closer to the table 

“Here. Lesson one, Fabric cut this way is not symmetrical.”

She picked up a small square of muslin and pinned it to the front of her small mannequin at a 45-degree angle. Claire watched as the folds from each side of the center-hung differently. She unpinned the piece quickly and picked up a larger piece of muslin and draped it on only one side of the dress form then repeated the process on the other side, working towards a central seam. The fabric gathered in the center and fell like a waterfall, hiding the seam. 

“And there, you see? Symmetry.”

“Next pins, you must have enough pins. There are never enough pins. We pin all seams and slip-baste from the garment’s right side.” 

Madame Vionnet lifted another piece from the table. The garment was pierced through, impaled with hundreds of silver slivers that looked like fringe in the light of the study. 

“Once pinned, you must set it. This work will be done by hand.” she laid it aside then traced her finger along the edge of muslin that was still pinned to the doll. “And the final lesson. The neckline, I’m fastidious about how it lays. It mustn’t gape open no matter how low; it must follow the curve of the breast, suggest its presence and frame it but never expose.” 

Claire nodded. She would never dare to argue.

“Now let me look at you. We have to get you ready for your evening in society. So tell me what you like about yourself. What do you think is beautiful?”

“Isn’t it very vain to talk about anything when you have yourself being beautiful?” asked Claire.

“It’s not a bit vain,” said Madame Vionnet bristled. “It is not vanity to know your own good points. It would just be stupidity if you didn’t. And you don’t seem stupid. Let’s see,” She looked at her critically, and Claire felt herself blush rosily at the scrutiny.

“Your good points are your skin and your eyes. You have ears you shouldn’t be ashamed of showing. And of course, every woman’s figure is her good point. My clothes are made for women of every shape because clothes are meant to show the body rather than the other way around.” 

“Over there.” The older woman pointed with her blue-veined hands to a changing area, “Take off all of your undergarments. They will do nothing but ruin what the dress is meant to achieve.”

Meekly Claire ducked behind a screen on the far side of the room. Her mind was whirring, only slightly concerned about what she would be clothed in. She hung her garments on top of the divider as he stripped and then held her hands up to receive what Madame Vionnet had selected for her. 

Claire took the dress into her hands. It looked like little more than a champagne-colored strip of silk. It didn’t look like much. There was no zipper or buttons that she could find, so finally she just pulled in on over her head. There was a long strip of fabric that she was perplexed about, and one strap seemed to need to be twisted. It took her several minutes to get it right, but the effort is worth it. The dress felt so light and flowing that it almost felt like she was wearing liquid silk.

She walked out from behind the partition, and she looked at herself in the full-length mirror and gasped. 

Her reflection was making her rethink everything she has ever known about fabric and flesh. The complexity of the construction meant that the design came alive only when worn or draped on the body. It was meant for three dimensions and cut to smooth over the figure. This evening dress dipped into the small of the back; it slid under the clavicle to form a soft cowl neckline, and bias-cut fabric draped artfully to allow for the curve of the stomach and the arch of hip bones. The deep drape of the fabric created vertical bands of light flowing down her figure, elongating her silhouette, which was first blurred and then brought into relief as her movements caused the swathes of fabric to shift and form around her. It gathered slightly to round over her buttocks and clung to her thighs; the fabric slipped from her lithe frame to trail on the floor behind her. 

Madame Vionnet stood next to her as Claire turned this way and that, trying to take in the dresses’ full effect. She seemed to sparkle with it an inner light, and she moved through the golden air like a slender figure on a Grecian urn. The dull shadowy room sparkled, too. It lived when she stepped into it.

“You see, the dress must not hang on the body but follow its lines. When a woman smiles, the dress must smile with her.” She said warmly and nodded her approval. “Walk as if you owned the earth. Because tonight you do.”

Claire smiled at her reflection. Suddenly she was the Winged Victory of Samothrace, ready for flight. Nothing could stop her. And that night, nothing did. Dinner was in a big, glassed-in club ballroom; paper lanterns had been hung all about it, shedding mellow-tinted light on the pretty dress, her glossy hair, and unlined brow. 

* * *

The shadows were growing long when Claire finally broke from her reverie. Madame Vionnet’s lessons wended through her mind, and she took up her work again, the same piece that she had ripped and stitched countless times only to find it had bunched where it should lay smooth. She tried to tell herself this was teaching her patience. She took a deep breath and began again on the troublesome seam. She finally found her rhythm as she felled the small stitches in place. Her line was smooth and straight. Her confidence rose with each placement of the needle. 

She would succeed. 

She would work continuously with these materials in order to gain the style and fit she envisaged. She wasn’t a dressmaker or a designer; she was, though quite unconsciously, acting the part and tasting all the subtle joy of the artist. And this was so much more exquisite than any material pleasure. Her body was her canvas, and her husband, her audience. 

And she couldn’t wait for the unveiling.


	3. Selvage and Silhouette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unveiling.

Claire’s gift for Jamie was stowed safely away in her clothes chest waiting for the right moment. A moment that Claire was starting to think would never come. Every night she thought they might have alone was instead filled with folks who sat with them around that fireplace in eager to talk of vanished years, reminiscing with mirth in shining eyes of land far away over heaving leagues of sea. On these nights, children and adults had tossed laughter lightly to, and fro, and friends gathered. Dance and music and jest had been at their heart. And neither could refuse. 

Then the busy time of year arrived. She and Jamie worked so hard on the homestead and helping new families settle that there was no time to talk, and when they were finally alone together, they were compelled to sleep from pure physical exhaustion. Neither of them made any pretense of eating, for they could not swallow without an effort, so they drank milk, ate bread, and worked. 

One night that sat at the table at twilight, a shadowy, suggestive time of day, resting and warming their tired bodies, enjoying that they were finally alone. Claire was blissfully content.

"This is a moment worth living through weeks of work and stress for. I’m looking forward to a day or two to ourselves," she said softly. 

At that moment, Jamie took her hand in his, and rather than asking her to go to bed as she has anticipated instead, he explained his plan to go into town the next morning. Claire sighed heavily at the scheme but nodded her head in agreement. Of course, she had spoken too soon about being alone.

Jamie squeezed her hand apologetically. “Well Sassenach, I’ll be gone for no more than three days, and I’ll be back by dusk. I’d not go if we dinna need the supplies so much.”

She shook off her disappointment and replaced it with practicality. “Of course you should go. Why wouldn’t you?” she asked resolutely. 

“Well, if ye must know, there were three ravens on the fencepost. I don’t like leavin’ ye with that kind of omen to start off with, but then I remembered that you’ll be telling me not to worry about superstitions like that anyway.” 

“And you would be right. I’d go with you, but Mrs. Calstock is bound to go into labor any day, and 6th babies tend to be hasty. But if you are going, then here I have a list for you for the apothecary, some you might find at the tanner and drysalter as well.”

“The tanner?” He said, skeptical and scratched his head. “And what could you possibly need from a drysalter?” Jamie reached for his spectacles, and his eyebrow arched as he read over it “- indigo, galls, shumach, logwood, fustick, madder, flax, hemp potashes...That’s quite a list. Do you have plans you should be explaining to me Sassenach?”

“No,” she laughed. “I just know that when winter sets in, it's going to be more difficult for you to get into town, and I want to be well-stocked.”

When they moved to bed, it felt very late, and after the day's labor, neither of them had the energy for anything more than trading slow, gentle kisses, but there was something to be said for the sleepy intimacy of it. Claire knew to cherish these moments: bleary with tiredness and perfectly willing to revel in the slow interplay of breath and lips without any need to take it further. So her fingers curled in his hair, and then she smiled against his mouth before closing her eyes and letting sleep claim them both. 

The next morning Jamie had risen as soon as the first gray streaks lightened the sky and foretold the rising of the sun. He was dressed, the wagon was asked for, and he worked on packing a rucksack with his belongings before Claire woke. Once he had made sufficient progress, Jaime resumed looking at her. She was still asleep and wished she could stay that way all day to shed the weariness that he could see in her eyes. 

There was a small twitch in her cheek when the first ray of sun lengthened through the window and slowly stretched across her face, nothing more than a fracture of a second, but it was enough to catch his attention. While she was still suspended in-between a vanishing dream and the waking world, he used tender fingertips to brush away the hair from her temple. It was immediately followed by his nose gently nudging her skin and soft lips pressing against the exact spot the sun marked. Her head leaned into the touch instinctively as she sank her other cheek into the pillow, arching her neck in a process, an obvious temptation for Jamie's wandering lips. But he restrained himself.

"Is it time to get up already?" she breathed through half parted lips, letting out an involuntary sigh.

"’T’is Sassenach. We won’t have what we need if I dinna get an early start one way or another." Jamie murmured into her neck, the bur in his voice vibrating through her skin and traveling down to her chest, gradually rousing her from her slumber. "I’ll miss ye every moment.”

Claire's eyes sprang open, and she sat up suddenly, and she wiped the tiredness from her eyes as she remembered that Jamie was set to leave that day. "You should have woken me sooner," she said in an embarrassed tone and quickly got dressed as Jamie bolted a breakfast of leftover biscuit and fragrant tea. Outside there was a stamping of feet and the whinny of a horse that announced the wagon at the door.

She saw him off, watching as he receded into the trees. Then she turned and looked about her. The beauty of the Ridge was unmatched. Beyond the fields, frosted with white where the foothills and beyond them the mountains. A golden glow rimmed the easternmost range, and over the far mountains, there hung a soft gray mist. But the sky above was already turning a clear bright blue. The turn of the year was beginning as she stood gazing into the cold dawn landscape, first in the direction of the farmhouse and then into the thick stand of trees. It was a beechwood, and they stood tall and stately around her. She could see her breath and the frigid air burned in her lungs every time she exhaled.

_ Three days. _

_ She had three days to prepare for his return.  _

Later she went out beside the west fence and gathered an armful of frostbitten tansy, which she boiled to a thick green tea. Then she stirred in oat flour until it was a stiff paste. She bandaged each hand and arm with the mixture and plastered the soggy, strong-smelling stuff in a thick poultice over her face and neck. She was so tired she went to sleep, and when she awoke, she was half skinned. By midday, she was a raw, even red; that evening, she had faded to a brilliant pink under the soothing influence of homemade cold cream made from wax and rosewater. The next day her skin was smooth, the ruddiness and texture from the months of working bareheaded in the sun removed. A dusting of rice powder was all that was needed for protection from the elements.

The second day was spent in her storeroom. She rummaged through all her ingredients until she found what she wanted. Cochineal beetles. Essential for making carmine dye. Claire tipped the folded paper packet into her mortar and began to pulverize the tiny gray bodies. Once she was satisfied with the finely powdered results, she set about boiling them in ammonia. She strained the mixture and added it to a clear salt solution. It took some trial and error on her part, but the end result was a bright crimson powder that she mixed with castor oil and beeswax that was as close as she could come to her most favorite lipstick color, Cherries in the Snow. It was the only color she could find that struck the perfect balance between pink and red—bold, but definitely not too over the top even in the 18th Century. And something that shouldn’t be invented for another 180 years. 

Claire awoke on the third day to a sunshiny morning feeling so good knowing that Jamie would be home that evening. She had breakfast early and spent the day with Roger and Brianna, willing the sun to move across the sky at a faster pace so she could see her husband. Eventually, the hours did pass, and she declined an offer to stay for supper and made her way home. 

Although it was early afternoon, the light was dim in the cabin that the lamplight gave an eerie quality to the room. The giant shadows on the wall moved and danced as she prepared for the evening. She lit more candles than was probably prudent and arranged them on the mantle, wishing that she could put a record on, that the sultry sounds of jazz rather than the distant sound of wolves and crickets could fill her ears. She would be happy with the light showing her handiwork to its best advantage to set the mood. Then she parted her hair at the side of her head and brushed and brushed until her arm ached, and her unruly curls were subdued into soft and shining waves. 

The dress spilled like water over her head and then fell about her, clinging to every curve and flared at the hem that brushed the puncheon floors of the cabin. It had an ethereal quality that gave it the most graceful motion as she turned from side to side. Her body’s fluidity created a luscious movement even as it hung delicately on her frame, her left thigh on display from the deep slit in the fabric. The neckline plunged in a deep v between her breast, and yet the gathers at the underbust both veiled and framed her decolletage. It was amazing how this simple slip of cream voile made her feel so womanly. She set a candle near the mirror and turned around. The back of the dress draped dangerously low, and the candlelight illuminated the long line of her back, the ridges of her spine looking like a string of pearls in the moonlight. 

She felt as if the spirit of Madame Vionnet, caught between the ages, was looking at her with approval.

She took up the small earthenware pot that held the bright red-pink concoction she had made and carefully applied the bright shade to her lips, emphasizing her cupid's bow with sharp points and then using her fingers to rouge her cheek ever so slightly. As she looked at herself, the images came. Of his hands-on her...and his face as she kissed him...and the sound of their breathing mingled together. Claire quickly shook her head, blushing at how her own breath came quicker as her thoughts roamed. She stood up and began to pace the room, hoping that walking would help cool her blood. But her mind continued to wander. In her mind's eye, his eyes meet her own, a small smile on his lips, and it makes her catch her breath. He takes her in his arms, and his lips are on her cheek, then her jaw. His fingers trail down her ribs and over her hips and lower, pulling her to him, and she…

She shook her head to clear it, but it was no use. She began again. Thinking of how she liked to be touched; how she liked to touch him. She was drifting, immersing herself in the memory of him; she felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into arousal. She closed her eyes while she rested her hand against her cheek. Her hand curved down the line of her neck to her clavicle, then farther, touching the soft skin at the neckline of her dress, a spot that Jamie loved to pay attention to. She couldn't stop her hands from skimming over her own body, nor did she want to. She couldn't help the hum in the back of her throat when she pictured his hands where hers were venturing, and his mouth following.

As she turned back to her mirror, she felt a familiar feeling at the back of her neck, almost a feeling of pins and needles. She didn't know why, but she was always preternaturally aware of his presence as if he had some sort of sixth sense where she was concerned. She turned to see if her instincts were correct.

Suddenly a draft of cold air hit her, and she could hear the stamping of boots at the door and hands slapping together for warmth. 

Jamie froze when he stepped into the room. 

The candles on the table reflected its light off the angles of her face. The hollow of her throat stood out in relief at the base of her neck. Her cool blue eyes looked like the ocean, and her sleek hair shone glossy in the candlelight. He half-closed his eyes, and smiling, stared straight at her. His eyes never wavered from her. She stood with grace inborn, her hair moving slightly from the heat of the hearth. The tint of her hair, her luminous eyes, red lips, and rose-flushed face grew more vivid. And there was something else, a light from within that illuminated her. It was a compound of self-reliance and empathy—these things combined to produce a breadth and depth of character altogether unusual and intoxicating.

Jamie continued to stare at her, vaguely aware that his heart was pounding like it was trying to escape from his chest. 

“Christ Claire,” were the only words that his lips were able to form. 

“Do you like it?”

Jamie continued to stare in a dumbfounded manner that she found amusing. She turned away and placed her hand on the hearth and smiled a self-satisfied smile when she heard him gasp audibly when he caught sight of her back and the curve of her hips. She looked over her shoulder at him and with a bewitching smirk. 

“Are you going to kiss me, hello?”

“I would, but I want to be looking at ye in that dress. I canna look at ye enough.” 

“Look then.” she took two steps forward, and slowly he circled her, taking in every detail. He was entranced; she was all that mattered in his world at that moment. She was magnificent. And she was his. 

“I dinna ken a woman could look like this,” he said in awe.

“It’s a dress style that is popular in the future.” She looked at him slyly. She realized that he had never seen a woman in this kind of silhouette before and never would outside of this room. 

“It’s a dress and not a shift?” he said in awe. “And your lips, they remind me of hawthorn berries in the snow.”

“Close enough.” she smiled. 

He stopped in front of her and took a step closer. He tilted her face towards his, and his mouth claimed hers. Soon his lips began their journey down her neck. A moan escaped from Claire as he pressed against a tender spot behind her ear. His hands caressed her hips, and he felt her weight shift as she moved closer to him. He took a moment to slide his hands up the soft naked skin of her back until they paused at the nape of her neck. Jamie leaned in close to her ear and whispered her name, sending a rush of goosebumps down her spine. She loved how he said her name.

His touch was reverent, and he reached to cup her breast. His eyes bore into hers as he touched her and drew a sharp breath from her. She knew this was the reaction he sought. He gently kissed Claire's hairline and nuzzled the crown of her head. He swept her hair aside to reveal her neck and kissed her there with ardor. He couldn't resist her neck. His hand moved down her stomach then over and up to her hip. Before he could stop himself, his hand was trailing down to the slit in the front of the dress where her thigh was slipping from it. He felt her shiver slightly.

"Don't stop," her voice was low, but her tone was commanding, in a way that made Jamie weak.

She took hold of the silky voile and pulled upwards in an effort to bare herself to him, but Jamie stopped her hands. 

“Please, leave it. When I take ye, I want ye wearing this. It looks like it grew on you like you are one of the Still Folk.” 

“The Still Folk?”

“Aye. An Ashrais with your pale skin. They are most active at night, and they cannot live on land. If they are touched by sunlight, they melt into a rainbow pool of water. A man must keep his fairy lover by moonlight and candlelight.” 

Jamie turned her away from him with his hands, and his lips began a pilgrimage down her back. Claire's breath hitched and turned into a deep moan, her hand reached back to tangle in her hair. He kept his mouth on the sensitive spot on the small of her back. Then he turned her towards him and stood up, his body pressed against hers. 

Standing on the tips of her toes, Claire wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. His mouth tasted like spruce gum, and it complimented the flavor of him, something she savored without restraint. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and she smiled as she heard him inhale sharply. Jamie pulled her closer, the heat of their bodies now reaching critical highs.

"I need you," she whispered into his ear.

He was trembling. They were both trembling. 

She reached to untie his stock and then discarded his vest. Her hand moved to his waistband, and Jamie helped her with the rest of his clothes until they were both panting with need. Jamie reached to lift the thin fabric of her dress and gather it at her waist. Then his hands smoothed down her legs until he could grab her buttocks before he lifted her up, and her legs encircled his waist tightly as he eased her down on the bed. 

He let her set the pace with their caresses as he rested between her legs. Jamie moved his mouth over hers slowly, enjoying the feel of every kiss, savoring how they felt so close together, until Claire's teeth impatiently grazed his lower lip, demanding more. He chuckled softly, then obediently, he deepened their kiss, inviting her to taste more as he eagerly did the same. His body rubbed over hers, and hers responded in kind, arching readily, flowing like a wave to meet him.

Pleased with the reaction he was able to provoke in her, he moved his mouth to her breast. Her back arched, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He didn't leave her wanting for long. With one quick movement, he brought their bodies together. Her fingers dug into his shoulder as she searched for leverage. as the molten heat within her core was finally set alight, waves of pleasure turning into flames and blazing under her skin. She loved his face near hers, his strong warm body buried in hers. The shared intensity of their bodies felt exquisite. She kissed him and clenched her walls around him until the pleasure welled up inside and then flowed out over her. She clung tightly to Jamie and moaned his name. He felt her come apart with bliss in his arms, letting go completely. Her cries flowed through the room. He followed right after her.

He pulled her to him while Claire continued to feel the glow of her release before she slowly returned to her senses. The embers were spent, and she felt reduced to ashes. Jamie rested his forehead against hers. They lingered together, limbs entwined, eyes closed, their heartbeats becoming steady once more. Jamies' hand followed the line of her arm until he reached her hand and gently entwined his fingers with hers, his palm enveloping hers protectively. Claire interlaced their fingers to keep his hand in place. Jamie knew it was her way of telling him she was happy. 

He leaned forward on their shared pillow until their foreheads met, closing his eyes at the feeling of her breath on his lips, and hesitated. Claire buried her head in his neck, clutching him close as if he was the only thing holding her to the earth. "Jamie-"

"I know," he said shakily. The sudden wetness against the side of his neck had him blinking back tears of his own. "I know."

They drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, but before dreams claimed her, Claire heard Jamie whisper into her ear.

“Sassenach, I never thought that there was anything better than ye in yer bare skin. But I’ve never been happier to be wrong. The future seems to ken what it was doing with a dress. Can ye wear it again tomorrow?”

Claire laughed softly and snuggled closer to his warm body.

“As you please, Mr. Frasier.”

THE END


End file.
